


Listening Comprehension

by felinefelicitations



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Body Horror, Chronic Illness, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, God Fic, Hanahaki Disease, Knives, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Plants, Sacrifice, Single POV, Temporary Character Death, and thanatos, no betas we die like men, personal agency, please give hermes a hug, there are semi graphic depictions of plants growing out of a character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28327077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinefelicitations/pseuds/felinefelicitations
Summary: Not all gods are like Hermes. Most gods, in truth--most gods are born with all their parts, grow by unfolding secrets and mysteries. Most don’t steal.Borrow.(It’s stealing, to be clear. Hermes does not return what he takes. Except the once, but let’s not get ahead.)But Thanatos is Death--himself, and only himself.Hermes cannot imagine anything more terrifying.
Relationships: Hermes/Thanatos (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 71





	Listening Comprehension

**Author's Note:**

> One last time: this fic got some body horror!! And coughing! And sick!! And gross!!! It's a hanahaki fic without the unrequited part!! You'll see!!!!
> 
> Shoutout to artistchan and Kurage and summer for yelling about this fic, you guys are the real MVPS, validating my desire to just write EVERY ship.

**1.**

Death is a quiet thing, or so the poets say.

Hermes lets his caduceus vanish, sits down on a rock, sets his bag on the ground next to him. He unwinds his scarf, sets it on top of the bag. He gets his boots off, sets them next to the bag, and stretches a little. He gets his tortoise, holds him on his lap, and pets his shell while he waits for the sun to finish setting.

Every now and then, a cough echoes up the ravine.

The sun sets, and the last bit of glow Hermes has fades with it.

“Wait here,” he says.

The tortoise pulls into his shell and promptly goes to sleep. Wise, really. Hermes is never sure how long this trip will take.

The rocks and ground are sharp against the soles of his feet as he picks his way down the narrow cliff path, but that’s to be expected. He slips at one point, catches himself with a hand, and ignores the bright sting of thorns biting into flesh. At another, bleached bone greets him—hollow and brittle bird bones. Hermes, as ever, ignores the obvious warning and only winces a little when one breaks and cuts into his heel. He’s lucky he’s not Achilles, really.

As he descends, past the river and past the underworld both, the darkness gains weight and presses down on him so that he cannot move quickly at all. This is the part Hermes hates.

The coughing continues, gets louder. It gives way to silence and wet breathing and then choking, sputtering gags. It gets louder and then quieter again. Without distance to hide all but the most wretched and sharp of coughs, the noise is almost ceaseless. Hermes keeps his eyes on the path beneath him.

Eventually, finally, he reaches the bottom and a bit of smooth white marble tile and columns sitting amidst the endless seas of Chaos themself.

And, of course, Thanatos.

He steps onto the marble and enjoys the relief for tender feet a moment. Thanatos coughs again, long and wet and choking, visible only by the shiver of the blooms where he is curled.

Hermes steps forward, first on moss and then grass softer than any in Elysium, steps on verdant vines, brushes by through flowers—white and red, purple and brilliant yellow, some barely the size of the tip of a finger, others unfolded the size of a hand. They smell sweet and dusky; they smell of _sleep,_ one that isn’t woken from. They do not, unlike every other step of the journey here, hurt.

Hermes sits down next to Thanatos.

"Ready?" he asks.

In the edge of his sight, the hint of a nod—flowers shivering and brilliant green leaves waving.

Hermes reaches through vine and finds Death's cheek. He soothes broken skin as Thanatos sputters another cough, then slides his hand down. Follows his jaw, finds his throat. Gently, he cups Thanatos’ chin and tilts his head back. Closes his eyes and leans down, pressing a kiss to burning skin and leaves.

With his other hand, he draws his knife.

"Rest well, Thanatos," Hermes says, and slits his throat.

******

The sun is starting to rise by the time Hermes returns to his things. It seems this time only took a night, which is lucky—he won’t need to slip through the past to deliver anything. Finding the particular present he left is always a trick in and of itself. He settles on the rock again for a moment and simply relishes the feeling of being light once more. The tortoise stirs and grazes as he does, and Hermes considers where the nearest stream is for water, as he would not particularly mind a soak, and he is sure the tortoise is thirsty.

Not too far.

He gathers up all his things, boots in one hand, and starts to walk.

******

It’s about four weeks later that Hermes sees Thanatos again while he's working. That’s not unusual—they rarely have need to run in the same lanes these days.

Still, Hermes will never miss a chance to say hello.

“Thanatos!” he calls.

“Hermes,” Thanatos says evenly, though he does not stop cutting souls free of bodies on the battlefield. Hermes does a quick little lap around him, just out of reach of his scythe, and relishes the slightest of smiles that cracks Thanatos’ features, that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Zagreus sent all sorts of invitations, but didn’t seem to give me one for you. Shame that.” Hermes can’t linger—he has deadlines to meet—but he still skids to a stop by Thanatos’ shoulder, listening.

“He hardly needs to invite me to my own house,” Thanatos says, not even the faintest hint of a rustle in his lungs. “I take it you’re coming, as well?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. See you there!”

“See you, Hermes,” Thanatos says; Hermes lingers only long enough for the words to finish before he takes off.

******

Thanatos has a near dizzying array of brothers and sisters, but Hermes only knows three. Charon, of course, with whom he has a very long standing working relationship, and Hypnos, also of course, because Sleep is an ideal medicine.

The last, Eros, is not an of course.

There are many stories about Eros, and most of them are not true at all. What is true, though, is he is Nyx’s first son. He is also, in Hermes’ opinion, a dick. But then, at least in Hermes’ experience, most older brothers are.

As for what he knows of Thanatos, well. Hermes keeps some secrets to himself.

Here is what he will share:

**2.**

Hermes did not actually _start out_ a psychopomp. It came later and mostly by accident. Hermes can’t help his knack for borrowing and wouldn’t change it anyway. He has borrowed many things and it has pretty much always worked out for him. Like cattle! Probably the best thing he’s ever borrowed.

What happened was Hermes was running a message, as he usually did, and he came upon a soul. A distinctly _unharvested_ soul. Messages that crossed the boundary from mortal to divine weren’t really so different from souls and Hermes, after waiting five minutes and Thanatos not appearing, simply decided that since he was _already_ running a message to Lord Hades, he _might as well_.

And then he just kept doing it until next thing he knew he was _officially_ partnered with Charon. The mortals realized it before him, even, which is funny in hindsight.

He’d honestly expected Thanatos to step in well before it got that far.

That was probably his first hint, looking back, but he hadn’t noticed it then.

The second hint—the first hint he noticed—came who knows how long later. A plague had been involved, he remembers that much because he remembers how annoyed he was at Apollo over it. It was so much extra work when he was already busy with one of Ares’ wars.

He’d spotted a soul on his way, detoured to pick it up, and noticed, in very short order, two things:

First, Thanatos was by the soul already.

Second, Thanatos was on the ground.

Thanatos was holding himself upright with his scythe, feet on the ground, so quiet and still Hermes hadn’t even realized he was _there_ until just that moment, and at his feet were—

third hint

—flower petals, brilliant against the dirt.

Which was so stunningly _odd_ that Hermes actually fully _stopped_ and nearly spilled ass over end from the force of going from speed of thought to _dead still_.

“You all right there, Thanatos?” Hermes asked.

Silence.

More silence.

Enough silence Hermes was pretty sure Thanatos was ignoring him and then:

“Yes.”

It was a very, very strained _yes_. Thanatos swallowed, also odd, and relaxed his grip on his scythe and straightened. Stepped back in the air.

“Can I help you?” Thanatos asked, but still.

Hermes knew what choking lungs sounded like.

“Don’t think so,” Hermes answered, but there were no other hints to glean, not then, and he was going to be late if he dawdled any longer. Thanatos was odd and Hermes really didn’t have a good read on him, not then. “I’ll be heading off then.”

He didn’t wait to hear if Thanatos said anything to that.

******

The fourth hint wasn’t a hint so much as a boat oar to the head. Literally.

Hermes had just stopped at the Temple of Styx with a new batch of souls, a whole gaggle of them. He made for the pier and Charon’s boat, though Charon wasn’t anywhere in sight.

A cough, wet and wracking; the boat rocked.

Hermes paused, looked around, continued to not see Charon. He debated leaving but really, he should take his duties seriously. No need to go leaving souls without Charon around, one of them might try to slip on the boat and they couldn’t have _that_. Charon had a reputation to uphold.

Another sound—not a cough. Choking.

Very, very ugly choking.

Someone dying choking.

Hermes dashed onto the boat, had exactly half a second to register:

moss, vines, flowers, _Thanat—_

—and then he took an oar to the head.

He came to in the boat with the kind of headache he was more used to after a night with Dionysus. Charon was doing his ferrying business and Thanatos was gone.

“What,” Hermes asked, “the fuck.”

******

A thing about Charon, perfectly free of charge: he is _incredibly_ protective of Thanatos.

A second: the only person he hates is Eros.

A third: he also loves Eros.

Charon’s a complex god.

******

“What the _fuck_ ,” Hermes asked, when he found Thanatos two weeks later.

Thanatos slammed into him, bounced off, and righted himself in the air. He scowled slight, a hand on the grip of his sword.

“It doesn’t concern you,” Thanatos said, curt and short.

“Rather inclined to disagree! This why you up and vanish every few months?”

Thanatos’ hand tightened, gauntlet gleaming and its eye fixed on Hermes.

“You should have kept your hands to _yourself_.” Thanatos vanished, darkness filling the void, appeared behind Hermes to snatch the soul free—a single soul, a child’s. Hermes turned around as Thanatos cupped the tiny thing carefully. “Don’t you have work?”

“How long should I expect not to gather the dead?”

“Forever.”

“Oh, so I should just _leave them_ to lay around and malinger while you go off to turn into a _garden_? That’s obvious. Why didn’t I think of that? I’m sure there won’t be any—”

Thanatos did not lunge—Thanatos did not need to _lunge_ ; he was simply _there_ , left hand tight around Hermes’ throat, gold eyes wide and furious and teeth bared in a snarl. Still so careful holding that soul to his chest with his other hand.

“ _Shut up_ , you don’t know—”

“Then _tell me_ ,” Hermes shot back, words sharp off his tongue.

“Sixteen weeks,” Thanatos said, cut from him easy, and tucked inside the two words, terrified truth: _seven it doesn’t **hurt** , ten it doesn’t **choke,** eleven and you **stealing** them and what **if** you steal—_

They both went still.

Thanatos jerked away, breath hard, that tremor visible in his hands.

“Never do that again,” Thanatos said, voice shaking as much as his hands.

“How long?” Hermes asked, careful not to cut. He licked his lips, clarified. “How long has this been happening?”

Still careful. A choice, not a compulsion.

“Leave me alone,” Thanatos said, cupping the soul in both hands, and vanished.

******

Here’s a truth about Hermes: he doesn’t know how to not help, even when he will fail.

Just look at Orpheus.

**3.**

As far as feasts go, it’s a good one. Hermes really didn't think his uncle had it in him. Which he didn’t, since Hermes knows that it wasn’t _him_ that planned it.

Zagreus looks different than he expected. Hermes had assumed he'd take after his mother more, considering his personality. Hermes doesn't linger over it—it doesn’t much matter. He says his hellos as if he hasn’t spent the last however long helping Zagreus escape, makes too fast small talk, and counts backwards from now to Thanatos' blood on his hands. Thirteen weeks, not bad, pushing it, but—

He doesn't remember when he started paying attention to time that’s already happened.

That's a lie, by the way.

At some point, _someone_ —possibly Hermes—tells Dionysus that Charon can’t get drunk, _someone_ —possibly Hermes—comments to Ares that Nyx seems to be free of conversation partners in front of Zagreus, _someone_ —possibly Hermes—reminds Poseidon and Zeus and Hades about a game of dice that has been going on for centuries they still haven’t finished, and _someone_ —possibly Hermes—convinces Athena and Artemis to actually indulge for once in their too boring lives with a little help from Megaera and Aphrodite.

Predictably, events cascade from there.

“You’ve made a mess of things,” Thanatos says as Hermes finds him tucked away in a corner, nursing a cup of wine.

“Not even a hello?” Hermes snags the wine from him, replaces it with a bottle of ambrosia. Thanatos frowns, slightly, turns his face away, also slightly, but the corner of his mouth ticks up, again slightly, and Hermes grins.

“Hello, Hermes,” Thanatos says, dry and half-mocking, and Hermes grins almost as wide as he used to. “You can’t expect me to drink this alone.”

“If only you had someone to drink it with. Shame, that.”

Thanatos rolls his eyes, grabs Hermes’ scarf, and then they both vanish. Hermes never will get used to the way Thanatos moves. Hermes runs as fast as thoughts do, but Thanatos simply… _happens_. It’s a difference in domains, of course it is, but the rush of simply _appearing_ , of moving too fast between points in space for even _Hermes_ to keep track of—

That’s part of it, isn’t it?

They’re at a balcony, cozy with a table set with books and poppies, a recliner that Hermes is absolutely certain Thanatos has never actually used. Thanatos sets the ambrosia on the table as he drifts from the air to the floor. Hermes investigates the books— _poetry_ —then snags a poppy and smells it.

It smells like sleep, but one that can be woken from. Not one of Thanatos’ then.

“Bit strong, isn’t it?” Hermes unstoppers the ambrosia and checks the cups on the table—dust free, of course. That Dusa girl must have a decent work ethic, or simply healthy terror of Nyx.

“I told you he was confusing,” Thanatos says. “What was I supposed to think?”

“You don’t get your friends incredibly expensive furniture and decorate their favourite brooding corners? That’s just bad form.”

“I do not brood.” Thanatos frowns, but he takes the cup Hermes thrusts into his hand anyway.

“Of course not,” Hermes says, then hooks a finger in Thanatos’ belt and walks backwards until his knees hit the recliner and he sits down. “Bet you haven’t sat on this once.”

Here’s one of Thanatos’ secrets: under normal conditions, he can’t stop floating. He’s too light—lighter than Hermes, though that’s more Hermes is the kind of light that warms black earth and Thanatos is the sort that leads people home. Thanatos just fakes weight very, very well. He fakes many things very, very well. So does Hermes.

That’s another part of it, isn’t it?

“I don’t—” Thanatos stops, huffs.

“Here, I’ll help,” Hermes offers. “Perfectly free.”

“Someone will see.”

Hermes cocks his head and listens to the noise coming from the lounge. It’s hard to tell from here if it’s a war or a very good party or both. He raises an eyebrow at Thanatos.

“Shut up,” Thanatos says.

“Didn’t say a word,” Hermes says, unhooking his finger from Thanatos’ belt and sliding both his hands around Thanatos’ _unfairly_ small waist to pull him down. He wishes Hades wasn’t so obsessed with decency, because if Thanatos didn’t have his stupid leggings then his thighs would be delightfully bare now. He’d also not have a gorget—hiding the line of Thanatos’ throat should be a criminal offense.

That’s another part of it, of course, but physical attraction is hardly a secret when it comes to gods. They’re all beautiful, even Hephaestus really.

“You’re not being very subtle,” Thanatos says, free hand gripping Hermes’ shoulder, the muscles in his arm tensing to keep himself grounded on Hermes’ lap, as if he’s worried Hermes might let go. He takes a sip of the ambrosia easy, as if he’s not.

Thanatos is _almost_ as good a liar as Hermes.

Hermes kisses him, drags his teeth over Thanatos’ bottom lip and gets a startled little—rattle free—gasp from him, pushes in deeper and licks the traces of ambrosia out of his mouth. Pulls back with a self-satisfied grin, enjoys the dark flush across Thanatos’ cheeks, and keeps his grip tight around Thanatos’ waist.

“You have your own cup,” Thanatos scolds.

Hermes widens his eyes.

“Seem to have forgotten it on the table. How about that.”

“I’ll choose to believe that,” Thanatos says, takes another sip of ambrosia, and kisses Hermes.

That's another part, and curse the Fates for it because there isn't a part of Thanatos that Hermes is not horribly, desperately in love with.

At some point—exactly nine kisses in—Thanatos’ grip relaxes and he slides his arm across Hermes’ shoulders. They’re flush, ambrosia and closeness both, and Thanatos is whining just a little, grinding his dick against Hermes’ stomach, rocking down against Hermes’ own, both of them bleeding together, sunbeam and starlight.

Hermes needs, more than anything, to get Thanatos under him so he doesn’t need to keep his hands around the other god’s waist, doesn’t need to keep pulling him down and maybe, maybe, he won’t have to soon anyway; when he opens his eyes to meet Thanatos’, the gold of his eyes are darkening black at the edges and Hermes wonders if his his own eyes are stained as much with Thanatos’ gold—

“ _Oh_ ,” Zagreus says.

It is very, very fortunate Hermes hasn’t let go; his fingers dig in instinctively as Thanatos startles, twists to look at Zagreus, stood in the hallway.

“Hi, Coz,” Hermes says, flashing a grin. Thanatos is going to bruise; something to look for later. “Bit busy, if you don’t mind.”

There is, under his hands, the telltale shiver of Thanatos preparing to bolt.

“Zagreus,” Thanatos says, eyes heavy lidded and impressively unimpressed and lips delightfully slick and swollen.

“Just wanted to check you were all right, there, I... ” Zagreus still looks flummoxed, eyes darting between him and Thanatos and brows furrowed and doing what must be an _impressive_ recalculation of every conversation he’s had with Thanatos where Thanatos has mentioned Hermes and vice versa. Hermes would love to stay and watch, there really is nothing like watching someone’s worldview crumble, but it’s been thirteen weeks since he killed Thanatos and time is ever fleeting and Hermes would _really_ prefer at least _one_ make out before he has to crack Thanatos' chest.

Fortunately, yet _another_ part of why Hermes loves him, Thanatos is _deeply_ allergic to having his emotions scrutinized when he hasn’t offered them up by choice.

“I’m fine,” Thanatos says, and then that gut wrenching _thrill_ as he yanks he and Hermes both away, dropping them on a bed Hermes is frankly surprised Thanatos has at all.

Thanatos immediately hides his face in Hermes’ neck with a groan, shoulders curling in.

“I _told_ you,” Thanatos mutters.

“Could be worse. Could have been Aphrodite. Or me!”

“Don’t _even_ —”

Thanatos is light and easy to flip, easier when he’s not expecting it—he is, Hermes knows, absolutely _horrible_ at wrestling. Hermes does, in fact, love that too, in no small part because Thanatos has somehow convinced the mortals he’s _not_.

Here’s another thing Hermes loves: Thanatos, blinking up at him, expression slow shifting from surprise to a slight, soft, starbright smile.

Another: Spreading one hand across the center of Thanatos’ breastbone, pushing him down onto the ground—or bed, in this case—and feeling him take a breath, deep, and not a single rustle at all.

Another: Getting that fucking gorget off his neck.

Another: How mind-numbingly _good_ it feels when Thanatos runs his hands through Hermes’ hair, brushes the base of his wings, fingers careful and quick and oh so light as they tease against sensitive skin.

A last: Burying his face against Thanatos’ pulse, unable to think beyond here, now, this moment. Thanatos wetly praying his name against his temple, Thanatos’ fingers digging into his skin, Thanatos’ legs hooked around his waist, desperately chasing Thanatos’ high because Thanatos falls more beautifully than anyone, because when he’s bled together with Thanatos to the point it shows in their eyes, Hermes stops being terrified of falling; chasing Thanatos’ high because Thanatos is slow and fast and so much _more_ than all of Hermes’ stolen parts but for a moment, a _glimpse_ , Hermes almost, _almost_ understands what it _means_ to be more than just a Titan-born bastard who has tricked the world into thinking he’s _more than_ and not still, always, at the end of the day, a goatherd and a thief.

Because with Thanatos, he’s enough.

Here’s something Hermes doesn’t love: Laying in bed, after, arm wrapped around Thanatos and forehead pressed to the top of his spine, blanket weighing them both down, and hearing a light cough.

He soothes a hand up and down Thanatos’ chest anyway, listens to Thanatos sigh but not wake, not fully, because he has always, all his life, coughed.

At least things are better now.

**4.**

Not all gods are like Hermes. Most gods, in truth—most gods are born with all their parts, grow by unfolding secrets and mysteries. Most don’t _steal_.

Borrow.

(It’s stealing, to be clear. Hermes does not return what he takes. Except the once, but let’s not get ahead.)

Thanatos is not like the Olympians. There are no mysteries to unfold, no secrets. He is not like his mother, nor his siblings. Even Hypnos has more hidden in him than only Sleep, Charon histories that Hermes has not pried from him. And Eros, well. Eros hatched humanity from an egg and if _that_ doesn’t promise depth, Hermes has no idea what does.

But Thanatos is Death—himself, and only himself.

Hermes cannot imagine anything more terrifying.

Hermes doesn’t give things back, but Thanatos’ terror, Thanatos who is only himself, that _what if_ —maybe, just once, Hermes would make an exception, return something borrowed. But he couldn’t do it if Thanatos collapsed every few weeks.

He found Thanatos again.

“You know that’s not normal?” he asked.

Thanatos spat up petals, a shower of red and white, and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, still kneeling on the ground.

“Go away,” Thanatos said.

“It’s not,” Hermes repeated, then, “Let me help.”

Thanatos looked up, brows drawn in, face—

 _confused_.

“What?”

“Surely there’s a way to fix it. No _other_ gods turn into gardens, I would have heard. The mortals don’t tell stories about it. Seems to me it can’t be a truth, just an illness.”

“It…” Thanatos trailed off, tilted his face away slightly, looking at Hermes askance. “It has to be true.”

“Why?” Hermes asked, frowning.

“It’s—” Thanatos cut off, tried to smother a cough. Hermes hesitated, then crouched down next to him, soothed his back until the shudder subsided.

His breath still rustled, his skin too hot.

“Why does it have to be true?” Hermes asked.

Thanatos stared at the ground, at petals and leaves, his fingers digging into the dirt.

“It’s always been this way,” Thanatos said. “Forever.”

“Let me help,” Hermes offered again, as if he were not speaking around horror. “I fix up whatever’s wrong, then you can have your souls all to yourself again.”

Thanatos looked at him from the corner of his eye, shivering and fever hot under his hand.

“All right,” Thanatos said.

******

The thing _is_ sometimes, sometimes, Hermes doesn’t steal. Sometimes, for reasons he absolutely has never comprehended, people _choose him_ , and he ends up with bits of them anyway.

And so Hermes has, over time, ended up with a stunning array of medical knowledge for a god who does not, in fact, heal.

Here’s some: he needed to know what happened from start to end.

“So how does all this go? Timelines? Symptoms?” Hermes asked.

They were at a cave not too far from a crossroads. Thanatos sat cross legged just above the floor, arms crossed. He tilted his head, slight, as he thought.

“There’s a few weeks where I don’t really notice anything. The coughing starts around seven weeks in. An annoyance, really.” He huffed. “Then choking up leaves and flower petals a week or two later, discomfort, feeling like I’m going to burn alive around week fourteen.” A pause, quiet, and Hermes bit his tongue to keep from interrupting. “It itches.” Thanatos swallowed and looked away. “Charon says it takes a week or two.”

“To?”

“Die.”

“Ah.” Hermes didn’t know what to do with _that_ , so he simply chose not to touch it at all. He has always been excellent at brushing past unpleasantness.

Here’s another: being able to actually see how a disease progresses is priceless.

“We could probably dig around inside, see how it looks fresh,” Hermes mused a week after Thanatos had just died.

“All right.”

“I—” Hermes wanted to swear. “I wasn’t _serious_.”

“But it makes sense to look,” Thanatos said. “I don’t know what’s going on inside myself. I’ve told you what I know.”

“Well, here,” Hermes said, pulled a bottle of ambrosia from his bag. “Drink up. And get anything off you don’t want bloodied.” Reached back in his bag for a roll of knives—not his kind. These were fine things, for not killing what was opened.

Cracking Thanatos’ chest was easy—his bones were as hollow as Hermes’.

Here’s one last thing he knows, but it’s not medical knowledge.

It’s a scar.

It’s Hermes, watching green split skin, watching moss bleed across white tile, watching vines sigh and spill and bloom red and white and purple. It’s Hermes, sitting out of time, listening to breath that rustles soft and pained, that turns to wet coughing that goes sharp then soft by turns, listening to the small pained noises Death makes as all that life pushes out of him.

It’s green twining around his wrist, up. It’s Thanatos’ hand, clinging to his.

It’s bearing witness, at least once, to Death’s fall.

******

“Hermes, hey! Weird, we started without you, looks like you were late for once,” Dionysus said.

“Not late,” Hermes said. “Never late.”

“You all right, man?”

“Fine,” Hermes said. Reached for a cup, saw dead green still twined around his wrist. “Perfect.”

Drank.

******

Hermes went to Apollo.

He went to Apollo’s mountain and he curled up on the edge of the drop that was perfect for watching the sunrise, but it wasn’t sunrise and it wasn’t day. He sat there, knees pulled to his chest and feet bare and stared at the silver bit of river that wound through the valley below.

There was still black blood under his nails, dead green twined around his wrist.

(“You want to _stay_?” Thanatos asked, confused again a way Hermes had grown to hate.

“Research,” Hermes said. “Nothing unusual.”

“It’s not pleasant,” Thanatos said, then shrugged. “If you want.”)

There were footsteps behind Hermes.

Apollo sat down next to him and Hermes stopped holding his knees, leaned over against him. Listened to him breathe and how it did not rustle or rattle at all. Closed his eyes.

Hermes hates to know the future. It takes all the fun out.

“Will I be able to help him?” he asked anyway.

Apollo was silent. Hermes listened to the breeze, to the distant sound of insects. Imagined he could hear, even more distantly, Artemis hunting. Listened to the quiet wishes of those sleeping, the half formed thoughts that burn away under the sun.

“Yes or no?” Hermes asked.

He hates to know the future, but sometimes it’s better than not.

“Yes,” Apollo said. There were more words behind that _yes_ , but there was the sound of teeth clicking shut, cutting them off, and Apollo went tense next to him.

Hermes has no idea why Apollo loves him, but he thanks the Fates for it every day.

**5.**

“You ever try pulling them out?” Hermes asked.

“Ah, yes, let’s grab the thing that already hurts and rip it out of myself. Why did I never think to try that alone?” Thanatos say, dry and half-mocking.

Hermes laughed, delighted to find Death had a bit of humour after all.

******

The Temple of Styx, souls twisting awake into shades, Thanatos smiling pleased, greeting each one in turn, gentle before sending them off to the pier and Charon.

“You don’t need to do that,” Hermes told him.

“I rather think I know what I need to do better than you,” Thanatos said, mild.

Hermes crossed his arms, studied the shades. One of them startled, shuffled past quick.

Thanatos elbowed him in the ribs.

“ _Hey_ ,” Hermes said.

“Don’t scare them,” Thanatos said, then went back to greeting them, smile soft, slight, starbright. “Welcome to your new home,” he said, warm, and several shades flushed wide-eyed.

Gentle Death, indeed, Hermes thought, leaving him to it. Hermes might smile, but he’s never been much for welcomes.

“Hurry up,” he said. “I’ve got an idea.”

******

“You don’t have to come,” Thanatos said, breath rustling, looking away. “I know how to die alone.”

“I do,” Hermes said. Then, “I might—be able to kill you. Earlier.”

Thanatos looked back at him.

Hermes almost wanted to take the words back; Thanatos’ expression was impossible for him to understand, then, but then—

“Yes,” Thanatos said. “If—if it’s not too much.”

Hermes shook his head.

******

“Here,” Thanatos said. “It’s not enough but—”

“This is—where did you get _actual_ phoenix feathers?”

“I… borrowed them,” Thanatos lied. “Don’t let Charon see them.”

Hermes laughed; Thanatos smiled, slight, and it set Hermes glowing.

******

Hermes, frustrated, gripping his own hair and trying to think—

“You’re giving me a headache. Let’s go swim,” Thanatos said.

“I can’t swim,” Hermes answered, truth drawn out because he wasn’t paying attention. He froze, looked up.

“Huh.” Thanatos, grabbing his wrist. “I’ll teach you.”

******

That perfect moment between day and night, dusk, when neither of them ever had anything to collect, to deliver, to guide.

Thanatos, eight weeks and coughing, pressed into Hermes’ side.

The sun breaking the horizon; soon, too soon, Hermes would need to leave but he did not want to.

Thanatos, pressed into his side, quiet, breath rustling, the faintest heat beginning to take hold under his skin.

“No more seawater,” Thanatos said, dry and amused as if he were not dying weeks early.

Hermes huffed into his hair.

“I’m beginning to think I’m only making things worse,” Hermes said in that nebulous gray twilight. But Apollo had said. Surely he just hadn’t thought of the right thing yet.

“No,” Thanatos said, certain. “You’re enough.”

******

_Thank you_ , Charon sang long and slow each time Hermes brought souls.

“Just doing my job, no need to thank me,” Hermes said, giving a salute and bounding back for the entrance.

It was a bit odd really; Charon hadn’t _used_ to do that.

******

“They grow fast, but maybe trimming them back might buy another week or two. Not a permanent solution, really.”

“All right,” Thanatos said.

Crack his chest week six; it got them from fourteen weeks to sixteen, when they both could find the time.

Hermes figured out how to slip through the past to make sure he always had the time—it was tricky, but the relief on Thanatos’ face, that little bit of extra time before needing to go down and down and down—

******

“The only good thing I ever found before you,” Thanatos said, twelve weeks in, breath rustling and too heavy to float.

“What?” Hermes looked up from a scroll half full of myth and nonsense, because sometimes mortals managed to find the truth and hide it right in front of their noses.

“This,” Thanatos said and ran, flung himself off the cliff.

Hermes, stopping short at the edge and Thanatos, laughing as he fell. The splash of water. Surfacing again, laughter to cough to swear to more laughter then shadows and water flooding the void before he was back at the top of the cliff, again, dripping and flush and beautiful.

“Your turn,” Thanatos said. “Here, together.”

“No, no, very good, right here, should get back to—”

And Thanatos, the absolute _bastard_ , grabbed his wrist and dragged him off the edge with him.

It was terrifying except—Thanatos, laughing, holding onto his wrist, dragging him back up to the surface while Hermes sputtered and choked and tried to figure out what to do with all the joy and anger pressing so tight in his chest.

“Awful,” Hermes said, which only made Thanatos laugh through his cough; Hermes knew what to do with the feeling in his chest.

Thanatos tasted like spring.

******

“Research,” Thanatos said, dragging Hermes on top of him, and Hermes agreed, “Research,” and kissed him, again, again, greedy, shoving Thanatos’ leggings down, catching them both in hand and listening to Thanatos breathing stutter for a different reason, a _better_ reason.

******

Week sixteen tasted overripe, tasted of hothouse stickiness.

Tasted of poppies.

Thanatos opened his eyes, breath shallow. Each breath rustled; if he opened his mouth enough, Hermes would see green. His skin was thin, dry, threatened to split at a poorly thought touch.

There was so much life trying to push its way out by the end.

"Three days," Hermes promised, and set him at the bow of Charon's boat. Brushed the feather softest of kisses on his forehead, smoothed the blanket he was wrapped in. Thanatos nodded, slight, eyes drifting closed again.

Opium, it turns out, works on Death. Who'd have thought.

(Hermes.)

******

Plant breaking skin is important. Falling is important. Decay. They have to happen, at least a little.

Three days was enough.

Four days would be better, but Hermes—

—he's not patient.

That's a lie.

The truth is, he's not that strong. He never has been. Just quick and willing to lie.

He made his way down and down and down, a journey that would be easier if he weren’t terrified of falling. Down and down and down, to a quiet part of Chaos covered in moss and grass and vine twisting up the columns, flowers nodding white and red and purple, the sound of coughing and choking impossible to ignore.

“I’m sorry,” Hermes said.

He cupped Thanatos’ chin, tilted his head back, and slit his throat a sacrifice to himself.

“Next time,” he promised. Surely next time. Apollo had _said_ he would be able to help. He just—needed to find the right thing.

Thanatos, sighing relief.

******

Both of them in Athens, a plague, a war at the gates. Thanatos, skin burning; Thanatos, refusing to leave.

“They _need_ me,” Thanatos snarled, tried to snarl, choked on vine and flower both.

Hermes wanted to strangle him.

“It's too soon, you know—”

“It’s my choice,” Thanatos gasped. Thanatos, furious, thin skin of his joints splitting and green tendrils slipping free, the first shoots of grass poking through. “There’s too _many_ , there’s the rest of Greece, we need us _both_ —”

“ _Fine_ ,” Hermes spit. Hermes grabbed him, shoved him against a wall. Grabbed his knife, slit Thanatos' throat in sacrifice to these mortals dying too fast, and swore that he’d not let them forget what they had been given.

“Thank you,” Thanatos breathed, vines dying.

Hermes left him in an empty house, out of the way, went back to messages and souls both.

Thanatos came back at sunset, whole.

They paid for that. _Thanatos_ paid for that. Five weeks, fast and painful from the start, Hermes holding him and late for everything because this stupid god was so unafraid of _falling_.

"Thank you," Thanatos wheezed. "You can go, it's fine—" Broken by wet coughing, a failed attempt to smother a pained whimper. Spat out flowers and leaves, skin burning. "I knew. Go, you're late, that should just be—" teeth clenched, breathing harsh through pain. Then,"Me."

"Did you _just_ make a _joke_ about _dying_? Now?" Hermes asked.

Thanatos, grinning slight.

"Maybe."

"You bastard," Hermes said, laughing and crying both.

******

“I’m out of ideas,” Hermes admitted.

He didn’t _understand_. Surely—was he misremembering? He had asked. Apollo had _said_ he would be able to help, and unlike Hermes, Apollo does not lie.

He was tired. Decades, and he felt like he had next to nothing to show for it except—

“That’s all right,” Thanatos said, smiling at Hermes slight and soft and starbright. “You’re enough.”

(Darkness, he was dense back then. He blames watching his lover get eaten from the inside out by plants over and over again.)

******

Stars, night, a pause, always those pauses just after Thanatos returned, because Death is what Thanatos _is_. He moves between points in space faster than Hermes can even comprehend, and Hermes does not run messages through the night. Usually.

Stars, night, a cave by the crossroads and Hermes trying to make sense of week six growth closer to week _eight_ when there was nothing he had tried, when this should be like the rest.

Thanatos, still half-drugged, leaned into Hermes—

“I love you,”

and a shudder, a shiver, cough wracking-wracking-wracking—

and yellow petals, brilliant. New.

Hermes thought of vines spilling, flowers white and red and purple, but these—

 _Love_.

******

“Hermes,” Eros laughed, bright and silver and vast. “Always a pleasure.”

“Delivery for you,” Hermes said, because there were always messages for Eros, which made finding him easy. “And I need to pick up a favour.”

Eros grew considerably less vast at _that_. Eros not vast looked like Thanatos, for that matter, which was—

Hermes assumed it was just Eros being himself.

It was a stupid assumption.

“Of course,” Eros said, eyes gold and bright as Thanatos’.

Eros glanced in one of many mirrors, grinned sharper and wider than Thanatos ever did. Hermes wasn’t one to be unsettled except—he was.

“Is this about Thanatos?” Eros asked, taking the messages from Hermes.

“Wouldn’t you know, it is. Lucky guess, that. You’re his older brother, his eldest brother, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you all that, and certainly not about his illness.”

“He’s sick?” Eros asked, concern and surprise both. Again it was—it wasn’t _quite_ right. The expression was so much more open than Thanatos let his face go.

“Eaten alive by flowers every few weeks,” Hermes said.

“Oh _that_ ,” Eros said, breathed a sigh of relief and sprawled himself out across a chaise. Settled, because Love is a heavy thing. Not like Thanatos, no matter how similar they look. “Is _that_ why you two have been wrapped up in each other so long? I wondered.”

“You don’t seem very upset about the agonizing death.”

Eros shrugged, lazy and loose. Hermes smiled so he did not grit his teeth. He wanted to tear Eros’ eyes out, and was unsure if he could manage it with Eros looking so uncannily like Thanatos.

“What do you _want_ , Hermes?” Eros asked. “I don’t deal in cures. Isn’t that _your_ brother? What _is_ he doing, that you’ve come to me instead?”

Here’s a bit of advice: never answer a question Eros asks about Apollo, or Apollo asks about Eros.

“You deal in love sickness,” Hermes said. “You owe me a favour.”

Eros huffed—that did sound like Thanatos. Look like him. Eros looked away, to the side, the same way as Thanatos. His mouth turned down, deeper than Thanatos’ would, and his voice went serious and sincere.

“He’s not sick,” Eros said. Then, “I can’t fix it. I’ve tried.”

“Seems sick.”

“You can make an attempt, if you want.” He looked at Hermes from the corner of his eye, chin propped on a hand. “But I doubt you can go through with it.” He held up his other hand, studied his hand that was in every way Thanatos’ hand.

“What do I have to do?”

**6.**

“I have an idea,” Hermes said, slow, knife in hand. His. One for altars and sacred deaths.

“You do?” Thanatos said, smiling slight, soft, starbright.

He had held Thanatos' hand for every death since witnessing the first. Cut his throat for most of those.

(Three hundred seventy of them.)

Hermes looked at him.

Thanatos, who smiles slight. Thanatos, starbright. Thanatos, who gives him phoenix feathers and taught him to swim, who jokes about his own death, who falls so beautifully sometimes, sometimes, Hermes stops being afraid.

Hermes is a liar and a goatherd and he should never have become a god. He didn’t mean to. He just stole the wrong thing.

He’d at least make use of it, for once.

******

Week one had too little growth to be sure he could find the source.

Week eight had too much growth getting in the way.

Week four was ideal—a start he would be able to trace, easy. A start that would not be thick with flowers.

“You think this is a cure,” Thanatos said, watching him set out jars.

Hermes did not look at him. He removed lids, set them aside. Set out linens boiled and bleached in the sun, set out a wide and shallow bowl. Filled it with water, clean.

“Yes,” Hermes said.

He laid out knives and tools for not killing what is split open.

“Hermes,” Thanatos said.

Hermes went still. Held in his hands a knife for sacred deaths. He brushed his thumb across the edge, sharp as the first rays of morning.

His. Stolen, of course, but his.

“Hermes,” Thanatos repeated, reached out a hand and cupped Hermes’ chin. Pulled, gentle, and Hermes let him. Thanatos, sat just above more white, chest bare, pale gold eyes certain. “I don’t care if it doesn’t.”

“It will,” Hermes said.

“All the same,” Thanatos said.

Hermes pulled away, reached in the bag, and handed a vial to Thanatos. Thanatos sighed, heavy, took it.

“What you do is enough,” Thanatos said. “You are enough.”

“Drink,” Hermes said. “Neither of us has all day.”

******

Cracking open a chest is sacred.

They all of them have their history written into their bones, their organs, their hearts.

(It is not divination. It is hindsight. Sometimes they are the same thing.)

There is nothing more hallowed than reaching hands into another.

(Hermes would rather people tell him their pasts as they’d like—but he needed to know where Thanatos’ garden started, how.

He needed to rip it out of him.)

Hermes cracked Thanatos’ chest, as he had when this all started, when he was only documenting, and this time he did more than simply look.

(Hermes is not a doctor. He only pretends he is, sometimes, because Apollo chose him and Hermes knows how to lie with what he knows.)

The inside of a god is not so dense as a goat, a sheep, a bull. Thanatos least of all.

Hermes drew out intestines, slow, careful, then placed them reverent in one of the jars. Closed it. Moved on. Stomach, liver, lungs—each cut out, each examined, each placed in its own jar. Each covered in fine moss, otherwise unblemished. Thanatos’ illness was one of the heart; it was not unexpected. Their stories were mild things, gentle things, quiet things.

The heart, last.

A god’s heart is a tender thing, a unique thing. A telling thing—flesh and muscle and blood; metaphor and truth and soul.

Thanatos’ heart glowed in his chest as it had the first time, every time, Hermes has ever cracked his chest. It spun starfire and light, pulsed instead of beat, sang a song old as Chaos’ first opening their eyes. Hermes reached back in, followed the first verdant vines unfurling to their base, their roots, and tugged.

Watched.

A shadow moved beneath the flesh and light both, and Thanatos flinched, even deep in drugged slumber.

Hermes set aside his knife, reached for those that do not kill what is split open.

Thanatos’ heart is a star; it is also twisted, like a tree that has been split and grown up around what split it.

Hermes cut, careful. Tugged plant, gentle, teased out one vine, pulled it up and out and set it aside. Blinked through—

_“You mustn’t love too much,” Eros said, serious, eyes gold and hair full of stars._

_“Why not?” Thanatos asked. He loved his eldest brother. He was beautiful and he made many beautiful things._

_“It makes you sick.”_

Again and—

_They try to sit with him, all, at least once._

_It hurt. He did not want them to hurt._

_“It’s fine,” he lied. "Don't come."  
_

Again.

_“You don’t have to come,” Thanatos said. “I know how to die alone.”_

_He did not understand why Hermes kept coming. Sitting with him. Did not want him to stop, but he—_

_“I do. I might… be able to kill you. Earlier.”_

_Thanatos froze. He had not—like so much, he had not **thought** , because this had been his eternity but Hermes—Hermes was always thinking of…_

_“Yes,” Thanatos said. He needed a gift. Anything. Everything of Hermes was— “If—if it is not too much._ ”

Hermes stopped, squeezing his eyes shut until the last of that memory faded. His shoulders ached. There were still so many smaller vines left, even now, at week four.

He went back to work.

_Mother, smiling like a secret—_

_Charon, wrapping him in a blanket—_

_Hypnos, eyes lighting up, “Hey, Thanatos!”—_

_Hermes, smile curling the edges of his mouth, crow’s feet pressing the corners when it turns true_ —

There was a vine, the thickest, the oldest, the first. More wood than green. One that did not die between each death but grew slow and safe against his spine. Hermes left it for last; paused a moment to roll his neck and breathe and stretch his hands. Went back to work, fingers singed by starfire, fingers slick with dark blood and thick sap, and cut Thanatos’ heart open.

An arrowhead, split in two, roots growing gnarled from a splintered and broken bit of shaft.

Hermes stared at it.

( _I can’t fix it. I’ve tried._ )

Pricked his thumb on a sharp point anyway and found a different past.

_Twins, his mother promised, and he loved them, already, loved them, twins born still: one asleep and one **asleep** , little more than stardust._

_Silver for purity, silver for truth, silver for faith; snapped part of the shaft off, eyes stinging—he loved them, but one was not even alive, was barely more than a whisper, he would **not** lose before they even got to **live** —_

_Love is a heavy thing, and a grave fertile ground._

“No,” Hermes whispered. He stared at Thanatos’ face, sleeping, drugged, Thanatos—

( _It’s always been this way._ )

He dropped the tools in the bowl full of bloody water, covered Thanatos with a white shroud.

“Wait,” he whispered, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and ran. Stumbled out of the cave by the crossroads, and spun, reoriented himself.

Ran to the sun.

“ _Please_ ,” he begged, hands bloody, clutching Apollo’s knees.

“I cannot,” Apollo said.

Hermes let go, slid to the ground, curled in, hands gripping his hair. Thought of an arrowhead, split, silver, remembered—

_Thanatos, coughing._

_A flower petal, white, stuck to his lip._

_“No,” Eros whispered, grabbed Thanatos’ face._

_Thanatos, confused, breath rustling in his chest._

_What had he done? He had only wanted—_

—and grit his teeth to keep from breaking under all the grief in his chest, a past he wished he had not seen.

“I will give everything back,” Hermes whispered.

******

The sun is just another sort of star. It’s easy to forget, with how close he is.

“Your knife,” Apollo said.

Hermes gave it back. He does not, as a rule, return anything he borrows—he would return all of it.

Hermes flinched as the knife shattered. Apollo picked through the shards of sunlight, took up a piece, set it aside, kept looking. Took up another, compared it to the split arrowhead laid bare in Thanatos’ heart. Handed it to Hermes.

“Be quick,” Apollo said, picking up forceps and scalpel both.

Stars are slow and fast and so much more. It was an eternity, Apollo cutting half the arrowhead free of muscle and wood grown thick around it. It was too fast, Apollo teasing it free.

Hermes is not strong, but he is quick.

A moment, Thanatos’ heart fading, light flickering unstable and unbalanced with half its core gone, and Hermes slipped the bit of blade in the space left.

Breathed out when it took root.

**7.**

Hermes ran.

He ran between messages, between souls, gathered both, delivered both. He ran faster than his own thoughts. Flicked easy smiles and easier words and did not, not once, think of Thanatos, slumbering the last three days.

That’s a lie, by the way.

Stopped at dusk for a moment, brief, just to see his tortoise, to see Apollo, not to see _anything else_ , and then go, because there are souls at night even if there are not messages, which was exactly why—

“Hermes?”

—he was there sitting on the edge of the bed when Thanatos woke up. Boots off, because it's important to check the wear, to check the wings, with how much he'd been running. Not lingering for any reason, because Hermes definitely does not linger.

Thanatos always wakes at sunset. Comes back. Both—it was near enough dying, with all the plants Hermes had cut out. If Thanatos was going to wake, it would be at sunset and it’s not like Hermes knew that, just like he doesn’t linger.

Thanatos shifted on the bed, pressed his face into the pillow and Hermes did not curl in and tense as a hand gripped light at the hem of his chiton.

But Thanatos didn’t speak. Just rubbed the fabric between his fingers and slowly, slowly, Hermes relaxed a little. Went back to the boot he had in hand now, rubbing oil into the old and supple leather with a cloth, using another to wipe the excess away.

“Thank you,” Thanatos finally said, just when Hermes was sure he had fallen asleep again.

“It didn’t work,” Hermes said; inside of that _I am too weak_.

“That’s all right,” Thanatos murmured, muffled by the pillow.

“It could,” Hermes said; inside of that _It would kill you_.

(It would kill _this_ Thanatos; he would not come back with soft smiles and black humour, because there is another truth—

Eros succeeded, and now Hermes knows what will happen if he does, too.

It is why the arrowhead was split. Eros put it back.)

“It didn’t,” Thanatos said. From the edge of his vision, Hermes could see him move again; could feel his gaze looking at him. Hermes kept his eyes on the boot in his hands, kept himself focused on the task, because he wanted, desperately, to run.

“It’s my fault,” Hermes said. “I wasn’t…”

There is not a cure. Not one that Hermes can live with.

His eyes stung. That ugly press of heat and salt in his eyes, the spill of it stinging, the tension of curling in, again, and he had to stop because he could not see, because all he could think of was how this was forever, how he had failed, how he had, without knowing, lied and how that mattered because he had not wanted to, this time.

He had wanted to help.

To give Thanatos back the domain he had stolen.

“I can’t help you,” Hermes said, throat thick with tears he was fighting to push back down. “I lied.”

Apollo had _said_ , but if he would ever be _wrong_ , it would be about Hermes. He was, has always been, a collection of stolen parts, pieced together into exactly what he wished he might be and not what he was, under it all, and if anyone could trick his brother—

Hermes had already done it before. The cattle.

Next to him, Thanatos sighing. Next to him, the rustle of sheets and blankets and Thanatos, still sleep heavy, shifting across the bed. Next to him, Thanatos curling onto his side, resting his head on an arm and other hand pressing to Hermes’ back, gentle.

Thanatos, eyes closed and breathing soft and cool and quiet, his hand at Hermes’ back rubbing slow circles.

“Hermes.” Thanatos drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Forced his eyes open.

Hermes looked at him. The exhaustion writ on his face, still. Apollo had said to expect it, but still—

“You can stop. You could always stop,” Thanatos murmured. He was frowning, slight, eyes barely managing to stay open. “It’s all right.” He stopped, eyes closing, licked his lips. “You’ve done enough.”

“And you?”

Thanatos, frowning deeper, turning his face into his arm as if it might, somehow, hide his expression.

“I’m used to it,” he said as if Hermes could not see him. As if Hermes had not read his past. “You’ve done enough.”

Thanatos has always been almost as good a liar as Hermes.

Hermes could see the lie and chose, anyway, to believe it. He had given. He had tried. He had failed. There was nothing else to try. He could not help.

He had done enough.

He chose to believe it, as if he could not see the pain on Thanatos’ face.

(As if he did not know the terror of dying alone, beneath that.)

“You should go back to sleep,” Hermes said.

Thanatos nodded.

Hermes waited until he was asleep to go.

******

Hermes ran.

Running is almost, but not quite sacred. He has always loved it, even before everything started—the coil of muscle, the burn of it, the sharp and ragged drag of air in his lungs, tension coiling all onto a single point before releasing, a controlled fall forward away from the past that, when fast enough, feels like flying. A perfect present.

He ran, because it meant he could not think.

He went back the next sunset anyway, and Thanatos was gone, a phoenix feather left on the bed and a note:

_Thank you. Farewell, Hermes._

******

He had spent so long snatching moments between day and night, snatching moments of quiet in the night to see Thanatos that without them the spaces between messages felt—

—empty.

He ran more to make up for it. Like he used to—not to go anywhere. Not to deliver anything, to guide anyone. There was no one to guide. It had been three weeks and Death was awake and more than enough for his domain when he was not choking up flowers and vines. Not like Hermes, stealing souls because he did not know how to keep his hands to himself, how to exist without filling every moment with movement.

******

He ran, falling forward through time, and tried to remember what it was like not to count every moment from Thanatos dying to Thanatos choking.

He ran and he smiled easy and he pretended things were back to normal, and not that somewhere, somewhen, normal had changed.

******

He had not cracked Thanatos’ chest at six weeks. Fourteen weeks would mean hothouse fever. Hermes had not seen Thanatos and he might have said it was enough—

_You can go_

—except, _except_ it was not. He’d seen.

( _Hermes, hand smoothing against his cheek, Hermes, cupping his chin, Hermes, lips pressing to his heart, his skin, his bones, Hermes a promise, again, every time—_ )

He went to Charon.

“Where is he?” he asked.

Charon shrugged with a slow ring of coin.

 _Working_ , the smoke curled.

“Still?” Hermes scowled; of course he would. No wonder Hermes had needed to gather so few souls, still, despite how thickly overgrown Thanatos would _be_ now.

 _Yes_ , Charon groaned, smoke curling amused and pleased in equal measure.

Hermes was—and still is, sometimes—fairly stupid. Here’s a prime example: knowing Charon is deeply protective of Thanatos, seeing Charon’s pleasure, and not realizing that it _meant_ something.

“That’s not a good thing,” Hermes snapped at him, and did not wait for an answer.

******

He could not find Thanatos. He would almost, and then Thanatos would simply _move_ , step between points a way that Hermes cannot follow, a way faster than even Hermes, and Hermes would be left staring at a corpse and emptiness and anger starting to flare in his chest because Thanatos was… _avoiding_ him.

There were flower petals. One, two.

Not as many as there should be for fourteen weeks.

Hermes went to Apollo.

“What did you do,” he said, and tried not to make it sound an accusation.

It was an accusation, to be clear.

Apollo ignored him, which fine, _fine_ , perhaps he was right not to dignify that with a response, but Hermes was finding too few flower petals for fourteen weeks. Hermes had a feeling growing in his chest, too white and sharp, too much like anger, and he had _let_ Thanatos _go_ and now Thanatos was _avoiding_ him and _here_ was his brother being a _dick_.

“You _said_ I could fix things,” Hermes said, jumping in front of Apollo as Apollo went to leave.

“I said you could _help_.” Apollo stared at him, white hot and burning, and Hermes stared back, thoughts all running too fast—

too few flowers, too few souls, Charon’s pleasure, how _long_ it took Thanatos to wake when before it only took until sunset, Hermes’ knife in his chest a sacred death, counter to too quick flourishing _love_

—and Hermes sucked a breath in.

In his defense, Hermes is not actually a good listener

“How am I—I need to find him,” Hermes said.

“He will still die,” Apollo said. “Wait.”

“You’re _horrible_ ,” Hermes said.

******

Apollo is horrible. He was also not wrong—Thanatos would die again.

Hermes needed to reach him before that—Thanatos’ face, Thanatos pretending Hermes could not see him and _lying_ , like he’d _lied_ to his family he did not mind to die alone. Hermes being an _idiot_ , running, but Thanatos being a _bigger idiot_ and making Hermes’ choice _for him._

Hermes would—he wasn’t sure. Talk. Talking fixed everything, in his experience, if he did it fast enough. If he got the chance.

Hermes cheated. He’s very good at that. He got a very nice piece of parchment, addressed it to Thanatos, sealed it properly, then gave it to himself.

He waited for night and Thanatos to reach the surface.

He stood at the drop of Apollo’s mountain with only the message in hand, barefoot, waited for the sun to set. Watched the dusk settle. Night unfurl. Took a deep breath, took a few steps backward. Stared at the drop, sharp and sudden, tightened his fist around the note.

He shouldn’t have let Thanatos believe he’d have to alone again.

He ran—

( _He ran—_ )

—jumped—

( _—leapt, laughter bubbling in his chest instead of a cough—_ )

— _fell_.

( _— **fell.**_ )

He tried, very hard, not to scream.

He did not do a very good job.

He had time to register:

yes, he had just thrown himself off a cliff

yes, he was falling

yes, he did not have his boots and thus no way to fly

he was _never_ running another message to Thanatos _ever_ never not in all his days—

“ _Idiot_ ,” Thanatos snarled, grabbing him, and then he stepped them from just above the too shallow river to its banks. Hermes clung to him, message crushed in one hand, kept a hand fisted in his clothes so he could not leave.

“Message,” he gasped out. He held the message up, waved it, which just sent his head spinning more because he _still_ hadn’t quite recovered from fall to that instant step between places that Thanatos did so easy.

“I—what?”

“Message,” Hermes repeated. The ground was starting to look stable and not like it was rushing up too fast.

“From _who_?”

Hermes grinned.

Thanatos scowled, slight, and crossed his arms.

“It says,” Hermes dramatically unrolled it, “Dear Thanatos, You’re not the only one who makes choices.”

Thanatos grabbed it, scowl deepening.

“This is _blank_ ,” Thanatos accused. “If you’re just going to _joke_ —”

Hermes grabbed his wrist, dragged along as Thanatos attempted to step away, head set spinning again.

“Let _go_ ,” Thanatos said.

“No.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Thanatos said, and tried to slip his grip, but here’s the corollary to Thanatos’ secret:

Hermes _didn’t_ need to lie to the mortals about being good at wrestling. Turns out wrangling goats translates pretty well to wrangling people, and Hermes might not be strong, but he is quick and nimble and he loves _movement_.

He was not going to let Thanatos run again, not before they could _talk_.

They tumbled to the ground, rolled. Thanatos, dragging them through space, Hermes hanging on tight.

“Let _go_ ,” Thanatos spat, kneeing him in the ribs.

Hermes kept his hand in white hair and breathed sharp against the pain. Grabbed a wrist and shoved Thanatos’ hand down to the ground. Closed his eyes as Thanatos dropped them through the ground, landed on white tile he _knew_ and _hated_.

(Where Thanatos feels _safe_.)

“Let _go_ , we’re _done_ , I’ll live with it, I’ve always lived with it, it doesn’t _matter,_ I said _farewe_ —”

Hermes grabbed his face and pulled him into a kiss, hooked a leg around one of Thanatos’, and held on as Thanatos shook. Stilled, the two of them laying on white tile, and Hermes stroked Thanatos’ hair as Thanatos wept against his shoulder.

“ _I_ didn’t say farewell,” Hermes told him, staring up at the endlessly shifting stars of Chaos.

“I hate you.”

“That’s all right,” Hermes said.

“Why can’t you _listen_?”

“Because I need to know.”

Silence. Then, the faintest cough. A cough like week seven, not _fourteen_.

“Know what?” Thanatos finally asked.

“How long.”

Silence again.

“You noticed, didn’t you?” Hermes asked. “It’s not a cure. But it’s—it’s something. It’s different. And.” He swallowed. “I love you.”

“You left,” Thanatos whispered, voice thick with anger.

“ _You_ chose to avoid me,” Hermes said. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.” He took a breath. “ _We_ can be done, fine. But I can’t let you go back to dying alone.”

Thanatos, quiet. Thanatos, leaning up and Hermes, terrified, let him. Looked up at him as Thanatos stared down at him.

“You were in pain,” Thanatos said.

“And?” Hermes asked.

“I can’t let you—”

“I threw myself off a cliff,” Hermes pointed out. “I will do it again. I’ll do it until you get it through your plant ridden skull that it’s _my choice_.”

Thanatos looked away, slight, huffed, even slighter, but his smile, slight, was starbright.

“Maybe,” Thanatos said. “Blood and darkness. You’re lucky I answered.”

“Maybe,” Hermes said, because he had laid Thanatos’ heart open, read his history, and knew—

_Hermes, stepping through all his spilled out heart._

_Hermes, bare feet sun warm, each step brilliant, each step a momentary relief from bones splitting, from vine breaking skin, from plants cracking up between his joints. Relief from lungs smothering, filled with life._

_Hermes, hand smoothing against his cheek, Hermes, cupping his chin, Hermes, lips pressing to his heart, his skin, his bones, Hermes a promise, every time of **death**._

_Relief._

—more than he would admit.

**8.**

Here’s a timeline:

Realize the plants don’t grow so horribly fast anymore. Realize help doesn’t mean cure, finally. Relearn timelines. Find out he is not, in fact, a half bad gardener if he sets his mind to it, just pester Persephone a bit. Learn when to crack Thanatos’ chest to cut things back a bit. Discover, one disgustingly snot filled and panicked sunset, Thanatos is allergic to living too long. Settle finally, on this:

two deaths. One for spring, and, of course, one for fall.

**9.**

Hermes wakes first; he usually does now. Thanatos is sleep-heavy, face pressed into a pillow in a way that would probably suffocate if he weren’t a god, arms wrapped tight around it. Hermes slips a hand around his waist, rubs his hand down his stomach, and presses an ear to Thanatos’ shoulder.

“When?” Thanatos mumbles into the pillow, muffled.

“Next week,” Hermes says, kissing his spine.

“Tell me I dreamed Zagreus.”

“Nope!”

Thanatos groans, rolls and half crushes Hermes in the movement. Hermes allows him, because it lets him wrap both arms around him, keep him pulled to his chest. Lets him draw his nose along the line of Thanatos’ neck, bruised, lets him press another kiss to the skin, softer.

“Get rid of the gorget and I’ll handle him,” Hermes says.

“No.”

Hermes grins against his neck, nips light at a bruise, and Thanatos sighs out long and pleased, reaching a hand back to run through Hermes’ hair, light tease the base of his wings.

“Should never have let you touch them,” Hermes mutters, trying not to press into the touch _too_ desperately.

“What a hardship,” Thanatos says. “A torment.”

Hermes slips a hand down and pinches the inside of Thanatos’ thigh.

“ _Ow_ ,” Thanatos says, yanking Hermes’ hair—not his feathers. He floats up a bit, _awake_. Hermes drags him back to the bed, rolls over so that he’s straddling him, Thanatos blinking up at him annoyed. “What was that for?”

“You seemed to be having some trouble waking up, just helping out a bit.”

“I really didn’t imagine Zagreus?”

“No.”

“He’s going to question me.”

“Yes,” Hermes says, grinning. “The gorget though.”

“ _No_. I’m still going to make him ask you.”

“Sounds like a bad idea, if you ask me.”

Thanatos’ eyes narrow, slight.

“You wouldn’t,” he says as if he’s not worried, but his grip tightens on Hermes’ waist.

“No,” Hermes promises. “I wouldn’t.”

There are some secrets he keeps to himself.

He kisses Thanatos once more before he gets up to dress. It will be dawn soon—he can’t linger, as much as he might like to. He doesn’t have anyone helping _him_ deliver messages.

He wouldn’t have it any other way, really. He likes to stay busy. To run.

Thanatos stays in the bed, holding a pillow, watching him as if he is not slight frowning to see Hermes go.

“You should visit again,” Thanatos says. “The bed is better than the ground.”

Hermes laughs, kneels on the bed and steals one last kiss. Cups Thanatos’ jaw the way he knows drowns Thanatos in relief, licks into Thanatos’ mouth as he sighs, tastes all that spring in him. Thanatos’ eyes open glazed and edged in Hermes’ black when Hermes pulls back; Hermes’ chest feels bright and full.

“Maybe break that recliner in,” Hermes says. He rubs his thumb along the side of Thanatos’ jaw, watches the way it makes his eyes drift closed, how he goes limp. “Go back to sleep.”

“Maybe I’ll steal a message,” Thanatos mumbles.

“You’d hate it.”

“Yes,” Thanatos says. “But maybe.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, and waits for Thanatos to finish dozing off before he slides his hand away from his jaw. Smooths the blanket around him, presses a kiss to cool skin and hair, and finally, finally, goes.

It is dawn on the surface, and he has messages to run.

******

Hermes knows many things about Thanatos, most of them a secret, but here’s one, free of charge:

He’s glad Hermes stole those souls.

And really, Hermes is glad, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this weird little idea that I could NOT get out of my brain, I hope you enjoyed it!!!! Comments are life, I'd love to know what you liked <3


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